Chapter Twelve
Willow began to wonder why there were so many police officers attending what should have been a simple medical emergency.
She was grilled by Nick again, then talked to another officer; she answered questions from one of the EMTs after they brought Geralt out on a stretcher.
At some point, they started asking her what Geralt had eaten and drunk at the reception.
Someone bandaged her hand. Phone numbers were exchanged.
She should please call if she remembered anything new.
Willow did her best, but eventually, her ability to engage faded and gave up; speaking became more and more difficult. Everything felt off, and jagged, like she had taken up residence in a black-and-white Escher print where nothing connected the way it should.
At last, the machines and radios subsided.
Emergency vehicles departed; officers pedaled away on their bicycles.
Nick returned to Willow’s chair and knelt in front of her.
The sun had disappeared behind the island’s western mountains and the fog had rolled in, depositing a layer of minuscule droplets on Willow’s clothing and skin.
She didn’t mind; the fog muted the hard edges of a painful world, and the chill outside only matched her inner workings.
“Hey. Willow.” Nick was squatting in front of her again. She managed to focus on his face—it was surprisingly kind, or at least not angry. She supposed neutral was the best she was going to get from Nick Tyler.
“Willow. It’s time to leave.”
She found she could not quite form the words to respond. She looked back at the front door of the mansion, surprised to see yellow crime tape across it.
Crime tape. That meant that someone—Nick, the paramedics, the other police—suspected a crime.
That this was about more than a sick old man who had neglected his doctor visits.
Willow shivered as she recalled the malevolent hiss of the man in the vestibule a few hours ago: When someone with one foot already in the grave kicks the bucket …
“Willow?” Nick said again, and she jerked her attention back to him. “Can I take you back to the cabin?” The officer’s voice was low and soothing, and it pissed her off.
“I’m not a child, and I’ll thank you to stop speaking to me like one.” The surge of annoyance was good; it was comfortable and a little warm. It made sense. It was the only thing that made sense.
One of Nick’s elegant eyebrows went up. “I’m not speaking to you like you’re a child; I’m speaking to you like you’re a person who’s had a terrible shock after a traumatic day, and who seems to need a little help on the self-care front.
I don’t want to get any calls late tonight because you sat here till after dark and got lost on your way back.
” His expression gentled again. “Come on, Willow. Let me help.” His hand reached up to brush back a stray tangle of hair that had dropped across her face.
A tightness rose in her throat; annoyance fled, replaced by something else—something warm and shaky, something that made much less sense. In an instant, all the emotion of the day threatened to burst through and shatter her, sending her flying in jagged shards in all directions.
She would not shatter. Not now, not yet. She jerked back and stood up too fast, refusing to look at him. “I’m fine. I can make it on my own. I’m fine.”
He gave an exasperated sigh. “Willow, you’re not fine, and you’re not supposed to be fine after an experience like this—”
“I’m fine!” She heard the hysterical edge in her voice, but she couldn’t stop it; escape was her only option. She hurriedly descended the steps, passing between the stone lions with as much dignity as she could muster.
Once away from the house, and from Nick, the fist clutching the inside of Willow’s solar plexus began to release its grip.
She focused on her breath, exhaling tension and shock, and inhaling the sweet salty fog-mist and balsam fragrance of the softly falling twilight.
She wanted to slink back to Sue’s cabin, climb up to the second-floor loft where she had slept as a child; there she yearned to crawl under the covers, curl into a ball and go to sleep.
But it wasn’t Sue’s cabin anymore; Sue had been its heart, its warmth and safety, and now she was gone. The night ahead promised nothing but silence and darkness, no company but terrifying thoughts and unprocessed memories. Willow was alone on Little North.
But as she rounded the last bend, Willow realized the cabin was neither dark nor empty; a warm golden glow shone from the kitchen inside, and someone had turned on the porch light.
The furry silhouette of a familiar short-legged dog sat patiently at the top of the stairs, pointed ears on high alert, waiting.
A warm scent floated out on the air, mingling with that of the pine trees and the sea: the scent of garlic and tomatoes and herbs.
The dog wagged his tail as she reached the steps; the sound of quiet voices, dishes faintly clattering, and something being stirred on the stove filtered out to her. The knot in her stomach released the rest of the way.
She went inside. The dog followed.
This morning, the cabin had smelled of Maine dampness and benign neglect; now the air was redolent with garlic and herbs and the rich complexity of a perfect marinara sauce.
Mac Reyes was sprawled on the couch, tattooed feet dangling over the armrest, typing on her phone.
Her mother had changed out of her suit into jeans and a sweater and was working at a bottle of wine with a corkscrew; the red-haired woman who had made eye contact with Willow at the reception was laying out flatware and napkins on the long trestle table.
Rina stood at the stove stirring the steaming contents of a cast-iron dutch oven.
Somewhere between a few hours and a lifetime ago, Rina had accused, shouted, and called Willow a liar. Now here she was, making dinner at Sue’s stove in Sue’s cabin. Rina fleetingly met Willow’s eyes, offered a conflicted half smile, and turned her attention back to the sauce.
The corgi sat at Willow’s feet and leaned into her calf.
She squatted down to pet him; he bobbed his front paws up onto her knee and gazed up intently at her.
You okay? he seemed to be asking. You look a little beaten down, like you’ve had a truly rotten and trauma-filled afternoon.
Do you need an emotional support companion, perhaps?
And did you happen to bring any more cake?
“Finn seems ready to adopt you,” the redhead said, walking over to Willow. “I’m glad—I hoped he would find someone soon. I’m Catherine Ward, by the way—the village librarian. I don’t think we’ve officially met.” She held out a hand, a little awkwardly.
Willow reached up and took it gratefully.
Catherine looked to be about Willow’s age, with winter-pale skin and thick glasses and a shy smile it was impossible not to return.
“Hi. Nice to meet you.” She surveyed the room, including all four of them in her question.
“You all heard what happened?” Willow asked.
“We heard,” Diana replied simply.
Not knowing what to say, Willow turned back to the dog, who leaned in blissfully as she ruffled his neck fur—she had always loved dogs, but her mother had never allowed them into their pristine home. “Finn. It suits him. Whose dog is he?” she asked Catherine.
“Effie took him in when he was a puppy,” Catherine replied.
“She left him to Sue in her will, along with the house and everything else. When Sue died…” She trailed off, then continued.
“Rina brought him home, and she’s been feeding him.
He’s been sleeping in the inn’s kitchen, but he’s a bit of a Houdini; he can get out of any place he doesn’t want to be.
He keeps running back to Cameron House, probably looking for his people.
It’s like he hasn’t quite accepted they’re gone. ”
Willow was lost in the corgi’s big, mismatched eyes as they gazed up into hers. “That’s so sad, poor guy.” She looked back up at the librarian and asked suspiciously, “Wait a minute—when you say ‘adopt’…?” Surely Catherine had not meant it literally.
Finn bounced up and gave Willow’s face a long tongue swipe. Then he dropped to the floor and made for the kitchen and source of the fantastic smells.
He turned and looked back at her once, with a decisive tail wag. Willow could swear he grinned at her.
Diana brought a glass of wine over to Willow. “Here you go. More than the average sommelier would offer, but I’m guessing you could use it.” She returned to the little kitchen, stepping up beside Rina at the stove and nudging her in Willow’s direction, easing the spoon out of Rina’s hand.
Rina took a deep breath in and out, willing the hard ball of shame and resentment at her core to dissipate, but knowing Diana’s gentle elbow to her ribs would be followed by another less gentle nudge if she didn’t move.
After a brief hesitation, she relinquished the spoon and crossed the distance to Willow, who stood to meet her, awkwardly brushing away the dog hairs from her black dress and leggings.
A moment ago, Rina had watched Willow relaxing into the corgi’s warmth and good spirits, soaking them up like water to a parched plant. Now, as Rina approached, she could see the girl began to shrivel inward again, and her heart broke a little.
The hardest words would be the first, but she knew they were the most important. “I’m sorry,” Rina said quietly.
Apologies did not come easily to her. But as she spoke this one, something shifted inside her, transmuting the words from social obligation to truth. “I’m so very sorry. I’ve been horrible to you since you got here—it never occurred to me you could have been as shut out as Sue was.”
Willow shook her head miserably. “No, you were right. I could have pushed; I could have tried harder. I should have trusted her, and I shouldn’t have given up so easily—”
“You were a child,” Rina said sharply. “You can’t blame yourself—I know, I know,” she said, her hands up, “that sounds silly for me to say after I lit into you the way I did, but—it wasn’t you.
And I should have seen it or at least considered it.
You were a kid, and you trusted and believed in the adults who were supposed to be caring for you.
It’s not your fault.” She paused, giving them both a moment to let it sink in.
“You lost as much as she did. I’m so sorry I didn’t see it sooner.
” Sorrier than Willow knew, or hopefully would ever know.
Rina watched as a shaft of hope bloomed in Willow’s eyes—deep, steady eyes that reminded her so much of Sue’s.
She felt the Gordian knot of resentment and self-absorption she had pulled around her heart beginning to loosen, threatening to release the wash of grief its tangled threads had been holding at bay since the morning of the wedding, the perfect day she had dreamed of for so long, that would now never happen.
Rina stepped back, looking away from Willow’s conflicted face, knowing if she did not, she would instead step forward and hug the girl. And if she did that, the levees would break and wash her away; she would have to feel things, feel all the things, and she was not ready for that.
Besides, with any proper hug came the high likelihood that Willow’s wine would spill; Rina did not believe in wasting decent Montepulciano.
Rina cleared her throat. “When we heard what had happened at the mansion today, we thought you might want a dinner you didn’t have to think about too much. And maybe that you wouldn’t want to be on your own.”
Diana added, slipping a foil-wrapped baguette into the oven, “If you want to talk about it, we’re here to listen—but only if you want to.”
Mac’s phone beeped with a received text; she typed a quick response and put it down. She added, “And if you’d rather we go away and leave you in peace—with pasta, of course—we can do that too.”
Willow’s eyes narrowed as she looked at Mac and the innocent-looking phone on the coffee table. “Who did you text when I got here? Oh God, was it Nick? He’s the one who told you about—about all of it?”
Mac shrugged. “He was worried about you. He wanted to make sure you got here okay and had someone to look after you.”
Willow scowled. “I do not need looking after, and I definitely don’t need Nick Tyler suddenly deciding he’s responsible for me. Besides, he doesn’t even like me. And I don’t like him. The only thing we agree on, I expect, is how much we mutually dislike each other.”
Mac sniffed. “He’s a man, and most men are resentful of women who are more complicated than they are.”
Diana called in from the stove, “Which is most women.”
“Which is most women,” Rina agreed. “But he also knew we would dislocate his exceptionally pretty nose if he let you carry all this alone. He called us hours ago.”
Mac continued, “And he texted when you left him at the house so we’d know to watch for you.” She looked sideways at Willow. “He’s not such a bad guy, you know. For a law-and-order type, he’s a decent human.”
“Humph.” Willow pulled out her own phone.
At some point during the afternoon, Nick had given her his number; “Don’t hesitate to call or text if you remember anything new or if you think of anything you want to tell me,” he’d said.
Well, now she had thought of something. She typed, Seriously?
Texting Mac and checking up on me? I am not a child, Nick Tyler.
I’m an adult and I’m fine. She clicked Send and immediately felt like an idiot.
The response came in seconds. Thank you for the update, I’m glad you’re safe, and it’s so nice to have you back on the island to be a pain in my tail, Willow Stone. Have a lovely evening.
Butthead.
Bravado and outrage aside, Willow had to admit—to herself, if to no one else—that they were right, and Nick was right too. She did not want to be alone right now.
Rina hesitantly patted Willow’s shoulder. “Sit. Drink your wine.” She went back into the kitchen to give the sauce a stir and dropped a package of tagliatelle into a pot of boiling water. “Dinner in about eight minutes.”